“You see, they make a cavity under the corn hill, and the roots of the plant wither. Excuse me, but I'd rather have Mr. Mole in somebody else's garden.”
Mr. Bronson laughed. “Well, what the little gray fellows eat won't kill us. But they do spoil otherwise handsome rows. How did you get such a good stand of corn, Hiram?”
“I tested the seed in a seed box early in the spring. I wouldn't plant corn any other way. Aside from the hills the moles have spoiled, and a few an old crow pulled up, I've got no re-planting to do.
“And replanted hills are always behind the crop, and seldom make anything but fodder. If it wasn't for the look of the field, I'd never re-plant a hill of corn.
“Of course, I've got to thin this—two grains in the hill is enough on this land.”
Mr. Bronson looked at him with growing surprise.
“Why, my boy, you talk just as though you had tilled the ground for a score of years. Who taught you so much about farming?”
“One of the best farmers who ever lived,” said Hiram, with a smile. “My father. And he taught me to go to the correct sources for information, too.”
“I believe you!” exclaimed Mr. Bronson. “And you're going to have 'corn that's corn', as we say in my part of the country, on this piece of land.”
“Wait!” said Hiram, smiling and shaking his head.